Asperities of Azkaban
by Lily Among the Thorns
Summary: He thinks often. He wants to go mad, sometimes. But he can't. The inner workings of the "Prisoner of Azkaban." Implied slash, rlsb. (complete)
1. Peter

Disclaimer: Don't own Sirius. Love him to death, though. He is _very_ yummy. And so cute! But, alas, he, like everyone else, belongs to JK Rowling in all her evil, whorish glory.

Enjoy. Or else.

* * *

Lifeless, sunken eyes surveyed the dank room without interest. Nothing had changed since the night before, and nothing would change in the days hence. It was all so hopeless.

Time meant nothing where the waxy faced man lay, unmoving. Meals were pushed into his room at regular intervals, but he ate very little. Took no relish in eating. Why bother when he was going to die anyway?

His face spoke stormy volumes, though none was there to read them. No one visited him. He did not blame them. He was a murderer, a foul being, unworthy of their company. He deserved nothing.

But he desired so much. And why should he not? It was man's nature to want what he could not have. And what he longed for was impossible to obtain. He reached out a spindly arm into the dank air, fingers extended, clutching at what was not there. What would never again be there.

For an instant, a pale face shone in the sliver of moonlight that poured in the high window of the cell. And for that split second, his heart rejoiced in seeing it. Perhaps that face was really there, smiling down upon him.

A sudden shiver coursed through him, and he winced. One more pleasant thought for them to wrench away from him. And he without ability to defend himself. Oh, how he wished someone were there to protect him. To save him.

He blinked, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. But he would not cry; had not cried since that day. The day they tore his world apart. The day he had seen those perfect, golden moons narrow in hatred and shock. At what he had done.

But he hadn't done it. He knew that much, at least. It appeared no one else did, however. Even the one person he had thought would see through it all. Would realize that he had been framed. That he was innocent. Even _they_ hated him now.

And it killed him.

A truly ghastly thing it was, to think, to remember. To know. Yes. He hated knowing. Knowing that he was the only man on the face of the Earth that knew he was innocent.

Correction. Two men knew he was innocent. That treacherous, revolting, rat knew.

_Peter._ The named echoed in the caverns of his mind like a silently uttered curse. How he grew to hate that name. For it stirred up so many emotions. So much rage. Because it was truly all. His. Fault.

_Peter_ was the reason he had been thrown in this God-forsaken place. _Peter_ was the reason that two of his very best friends were dead. _Peter _was the reason that his only living friend hated him. _Peterpeterpeterpeter._

He wanted to scream. Wanted to walk up one side of him and down the other. Wanted to rip the Dark Mark off that scoundrel's arm with his bare hands. Or perhaps his teeth. Yes… that sounded appealing. Biting a chunk of foul skin right out of the little, balding man's arm.

_But it was all in vain,_ whispered their omnipresent voices in the silence, flowing sinuously, caressingly in the darkness. _For there is nothing you can do._ They taunted him, and they laughed. High, screeching, wretched giggles that drove him to the brink of insanity.

But the visions of those golden moons always dragged him back, coughing and spluttering, to his senses. And for that, he was eternally grateful.

* * *

Intentions of continuing this as a sort of collection of dabblings about Sirius' time in Azkaban. Let me know if I should bother to continue.


	2. Moony

He clawed desperately at the wall, knowing it was useless, but wishing he could escape. Wishing was useless, he realized, head falling forward to rest upon the damp wall. He sighed loudly, though no one could hear him.

_Weary with toil I haste me to my bed,  
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;_

_But then begins a journey in my head  
To work my mind when body's work's expired;_

Stormy gray eyes lolled closed wearily, as if they could remain open no longer. He could not bear to keep them open. There was nothing to look upon. No one for those stormy gray eyes to smile lovingly at. That person had not been there for so long.

_For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,  
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,  
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,  
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:_

But he could not forget what they looked like. He saw them whenever he closed his eyes. His heart wrenched when he did so, longing, yearning, craving, for that vision to be a reality. Wanting to reach out and touch that pale, scarred face so badly that it made his head and chest ache. Pining to look into those golden suns again.

And yet, he wished he could forget. Desired nothing more than to never close his eyes. Never wanted to have to see the face of the one person he could never have again. Who would never love him again.

_Save that my soul's imaginary sight  
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,  
Which like a jewel hung in ghastly night  
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new._

He sunk down, back against the wall, now, head buried in his skeletal hands. Hot tears burned down his cheeks. His face was the only part of him that was warm. The rest was bitter cold, chalky, icy, white skin, stretched over bones, straining to cover them.

He was hungry. But he would not eat. He was tired. But he would not sleep. Was lonely, but had no company. He had nothing. Had no one. Was a nothing. Was no one. He deserved what he got.

A soft whimper escaped his lips. He wanted nothing more than to forget, now. Forget and collapse into the serenity of insanity that had claimed so many of the other occupants. It seemed so very appealing.

_Lo, thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,  
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find._

But he did not. For memories still lay fresh in his mind, like dew on an early spring morning. And he wouldn't mar them for the world.

* * *

_Italics_ are _Sonnet XXVII_, as in Shakespeare.


	3. Memories

He laid on his back, a thin strip of material the sole thing between himself and the cold, concrete floor. The inevitable smell of mold lingered in his nostrils; the foul taste of the dementors' presence still in his mouth.

Faintly, "How did I end up here?" flickered across his mind, but he banished it immediately. It was useless to ask.

Another futile tear trickled down his pallid cheek. He remembered, so very clearly, what he wished with so much fervor to forget. He had been too late. One second too late.

And that had been his fault. No amount of cursing the rat that had betrayed his friends could change the fact that he was just too slow. His thoughts had been too cumbersome, too languid, too full of other things.

In those days, he had burst with pride for his green-eyed godson; he had seethed with love for his golden-eyed companion. Not once had his eyes twitched with suspicion for his rodent-like "friend." And it should have.

_A day late and a dollar short,_ rang an old Muggle adage in his thoughts. The cold tightened about him, as if it were a physical entity. Somehow, it seemed that was the story of his life. Never quite right.

Certainly, he had been successful in some things. There was a time when he had never failed to earn a friend, a date, or a detention. But, those days were long gone, he reminded himself with a note of resignation.

His skin crawled with unrelieved anxiety, and a shiver traveled up his spine. He felt hopeless. It was the dementors, he knew, lingering just outside his cell. But he didn't feel up to resisting. Not today.

He smiled bleakly at the wall, stormy eyes slowly going out of focus. He welcomed the madness he knew would come, wondering how long it would take. He hoped it would be quick. His eyes slipped shut, and he involuntarily shivered. He drew in a deep breath, calming his nerves for what was next.

"_Sirius?" It was Remus. The blood had drained from his scarred face, and he looked almost as if he'd been Petrified. His eyes had dropped to a dull brown, and he narrowed them suspiciously at Sirius._

"_Moony!" Sirius cried, relieved to see a friendly face in such a dismal location. Perhaps he had good news. Perhaps he'd brought word from Dumbledore that the Order was working to have him released._

_The door slid shut behind the werewolf, and he crossed the room slowly, at first, tentatively. He did not look at his friend, keeping his gaze fixed upon the floor. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his shabby robes, ambling over to Sirius before finally turning his head up to look at him._

_Sirius' heart turned cold. He was no longer looking into the eyes of his best friend. No. Those golden eyes stared not back into his. The dull brown eyes were not those of Remus Lupin. They could not be._

_But they were._

"_I don't know what's happened to you, Sirius," Remus whispered, his face inches from the convict's. His expression was reproachful, but a tone of regret sounded in his soft voice. Slowly, the werewolf shook his head, and turned away. "Goodbye, Sirius," he muttered, heading out of the dreary little room._

_The door slammed shut. "Moony!" Sirius cried, begging his friend to come back, not to leave him there. But it was useless._

A howl from somewhere outside shook Sirius from his stupor. He wasn't cold any longer. His fingers were red and pricked with frost, but he didn't feel cold. His brow furrowed in disbelief. He had just relieved one of the single worst moments of his life – the moment at which he had lost the last thing he had ever loved – and he had suddenly snapped out of it.

What was _wrong_ with him? He was more than willing to submit to the dementors. He _wanted_ them to take over his mind, to stop him from wanting the happiness he couldn't have. What was stopping them?

He wanted to scream. Nothing would ever happen the way he wanted it to. He wouldn't be released, wouldn't reap his revenge, wouldn't see his love ever again. No. _This_ was his destiny. His punishment. His Hell.

Sirius Black was going to sit and rot in Azkaban with only the memory of his friends to keep him clinging to life. His destiny was eternal torture, and there was no escaping it.

----------

Poor Siri. Oh well. Twelve years in Azkaban at least gives me something to write about. Shall I continue?


	4. Absence

Yup. Another one, finally. Stanzas from _Sonnet XXX_.

* * *

_Absence makes the heart grow fonder._ Like Hell it did. Who ever said that certainly hadn't been without someone they loved for very long.

Absence did not make the heart grow fonder. All it did was dull the few memories one had. Make it seem as though he had just been dreaming, those years. And he most certainly had not dreamt those beautiful years with Remus. He couldn't have. His subconscious would never have visualized him in such bliss as he was then.

A pang of remorse hit Sirius in the chest, pressing so hard he could scarcely breathe. He should still have been with his precious Moony. Should still be holding him in his arms. Should still be happy.

_When to the sessions of sweet silent thought   
I summon up remembrance of things past,_

_I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,   
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste._

Oh, Merlin, he missed him. Missed gazing into deep, sparkling eyes. Missed lacing his fingers through sandy locks. Missed caressing soft white skin, tenderly tracing his fingers over pink and purple scars. He just missed... everything.

That was his problem, Sirius realized. He always wanted what he couldn't have. Always. He'd wanted acceptance from his family. And he'd learned to live without that. He'd wanted a peaceful life at school. And it turned out to better without it. Remus was just another desire. An aching desire, pulsing, burning, fiercely within him. But that fire could not be quenched.

_Then can I drown an eye unused to flow   
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,   
And weep afresh love's long-since-cancelled woe,   
And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight._

He inhaled slowly, pursing his lips, as though sucking a straw. His eyes fluttered shut, freeing the flow of salt and water that had lingered there for what seemed like days. It could only have been a few minutes, maybe hours, the prisoner reminded himself, but the passage of times was nothing to him.

What did he care if he cried for days or weeks or months or even years? He shouldn't care at all. The overabundance of sorrow scarcely made up for the lack of joy in his pathetic life. But at least he could feel. Sirius could not imagine being numb, not like the others he knew were locked away in Azkaban, as well.

Absence of feeling was a double-edged sword, he decided. To feel nothing would be to forget, to never have to think on losing Remus and James and Lily again. But to forget would be to bereave him of precious memories, the very essence that sustained him. Living in the past – that wondrous past – was the only life he had left, and even a condemned man was loath to let it go.

_Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,   
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er   
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,   
Which I new pay as if not paid before._

Everyday, Sirius chose to hold fast on to his emotions, his sorrow. He had nothing else left, and he would be damned if he lost his last connection with love. Absence of love may have made him miserable, but it verified his existence. If he could still mourn, still remember with painful clarity everything he and Moony had ever done together, he was still alive.

And not even he was hopeless enough to long for death. The sole thing left that wanted him, he cast out with repugnance. It was not his time to go yet. That much he knew.

And so, Sirius let his tears flow freely, sparkling faintly in the dim light. With every fiber of his being, he recalled every last moment he had ever spent with his dearest werewolf. He sobbed silently, sometimes thinking the pain too much to bear. But, nonetheless, he continued his mental journey.

_But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,   
All losses are restored, and sorrows end._

At last, he smiled weakly, falling into a deep sleep, remembering warm nights long past. And he could have sworn he was happy.


	5. Escape

He sat curled, knees to chest, planning. It wouldn't be difficult. Not the way he saw it, at least. Oh, so convenient. Why hadn't he thought of it before? Was he afraid?

No. He was foolish. Hopeful. For twelve years, he had been so delusional as to think that they would come to his aid. That they somehow were different from the rest of the world. That they believed him when he told them he was innocent.

But he had hoped in vain. They had abandoned him, too. Just like everyone else. Even Remus, as must as it killed him to admit – or even think about – it, had forsaken him.

And the only others who would be able to prove that he didn't do it – didn't betray anyone – were dead. They had died because of his suggestion. Because of him. No. Because of that rat.

"He's at Hogwarts," he muttered repeatedly. He could feel it. The treasonous little rat was at Hogwarts. With his godson, no doubt. Sirius growled, dog-like, at the thought of that. Not once did he think of how foolish he was to be so protective of a boy he barely knew, who barely knew him. A boy who he hadn't even seen for twelve years.

But that never crossed his mind. All he could think about was his plan. Would it work? He found that he wasn't sure. But he _must_ try.

Revenge was everything, after all. It was all he had left, now. No friends, no accursed family, no precious godson. Just revenge, bitter one his tongue like the taste of dark cocoa.

Sirius scowled, an expression he was accustomed to, nowadays, no longer the jovial young man of his past. The prisoner drew in a breath. He _had_ to do it. Harry's life might depend on it.

"He's at Hogwarts," he groaned again, with resolve, now. The single driving force of his life was that green-eyes, jet-haired godson of his, the essence of Lily and James personified. The last shred of who he used to be could be in danger. Had to be, what with Wormtail so near to him.

And his, Sirius', job – for it was his and his alone – was to protect the boy.

Maybe, just maybe, if he kept Harry safe, it would somehow make up for getting Lily and James killed. Maybe, then, everything would be okay; maybe Remus wouldn't hate him; and maybe they could pick up where they left off.

Sirius sighed shakily, nodding to himself. This was it. Now or never. "C'mon, Padfoot... don't chicken out, now..."

Effortlessly, he slipped into the majestic form of that great, shaggy, black dog.

Now all that was left to do was wait. Sit and scratch and wait until the door opened.

Finally, he was going to do it. Sirius Black was going to escape from Azkaban.

**(end.) **

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Uhm... yeah. That's it. "_Asperities"_ is all done. Because I thought of this in Chem. Today and couldn't pass it up. I think I'll be writing a lot of random one-shots, now.

So, tell me what you think.


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